Elliott Ellwood and the Muggle of Gaul
by SunMason
Summary: It's been several years since the Battle of Hogwarts and Harry Potter's legendary defeat of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. However, this is not a story about the famous Boy Who Lived, nor anyone you may be familiar with in the Wizarding World. This is the story of Elliott Ellwood, his adventures at Hogwarts, and his experiences with new characters and old.
1. Prologue - When There's Smoke

_Author's note:_

 _If you are looking for a story that explores JK Rowling's main characters, you will not find it here. If you've ever wished to sit down and reread the Harry Potter series as if for the first time, I am hopeful that this is exactly the story for you. This is an exploration of Hogwarts and the wizarding world through the perspective of a young boy, a new character, one that is in for quite the adventure. This prologue will set up the overarching plot, and then our dear Elliott will appear in the next chapter._

* * *

Prologue - When There's Smoke

The National Gallery of Art was nearing its busiest hours of the afternoon as Polonius Westerhaus stepped outside for his third cigarette break that day. From in between the towering columns of the main entrance, the middle-aged wizard had a proper view of the hordes of tourists bustling around Traflgar Square. It had been a cloudy weekend thus far, but Polonius knew that would only attract more muggles to the museum. They were the type to let the weather keep them from spending their off days outdoors.

Polonius adjusted his collar as he took a few puffs of his cigarette. _Damn useless tie,_ he thought, _might as well be casting an incarcerous spell on myself_. Such attire was necessary in his line of profession, however. Polonius was expected to blend in with his muggle counterparts around the museum, even if his actual job was unbeknownst to any of them.

As the wizard's cigarette dwindled, he flicked the butt down the museum steps and turned to go back inside. Except, where most patrons would step into the large spacious rotunda beyond the beautifully marbled entrance, Polonius took an immediate right and entered into the less than grandiose coat room connected to it. Despite being the midst of summer, the closet interior was filled with dozens of unassuming coats, jackets, and cloaks. Polonius knew that none of these articles of clothing actually belonged to anyone—they were in fact merely there to hide what was hung behind them.

With an unenthusiastic tug at the nearest coat rack, Polonius stepped between the layers of jackets and waddled his way through the hangers. It was a painfully ungraceful process to access the small square painting that lay hidden behind all the coats, but the wizard found that it was worth even the shortest of cigarette breaks.

"Ahem!" Polonius addressed the painting.

"Ah, Mssr. Westerhaus, lovely to see you again," said the toad-like man inside the inconspicuous frame. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Open up, Tybalt," answered Polonius impatiently.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that without the password, sir," Tybalt the painting replied with a sarcastic curl of his lip.

"Doorkijkje! The password is doorkijkje. Happy?"

"Unfortunately, that was the _old_ password, sir. It's been changed since last you left."

The wizard could see Tybalt attempting to disguise a smile while he adjusted his white powdered wig authoritatively. He was clearly enjoying this.

"You know who I am! Damn it Tybalt, I work here!" Polonius spat in frustration. "Why in the world would you have chosen now to change the password anyway? I've only been gone for five minutes. Just let me in!"

"Why, Mssr. Westerhaus, if I'm not here to do my job then what am I really here for?" Tybalt asked before taking a long, slow sip of his tea. "I can't make exceptions simply because you're the department's lead curator. That would be unethical."

"Tybalt, I swear if you don't open thi-"

"Polonius!" interrupted a voice from behind them. In an attempt to see who had called, the curator nearly fell amongst the foliage of coats surrounding him. After a few deep, calming breaths, the wizard turned to find his co-worker Abram had joined him in the coat room. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Well, here I am," replied Polonius. "What did you need?"

"The Director wants to speak with you. I believe it's about that uh… transfer."

"Thank you, Abram," Polonius sighed. He could really use another cigarette. "I'd be happy to oblige the Director the moment I get past this damn painting."

The other man chuckled before turning to Tybalt and saying, "Grisaille."

With a perfunctory bow, the figure in the painting disappeared as a rectangular section of the coat room wall shifted into a plain wooden door. Polonius and Abram walked through this newly revealed entrance and into a slightly smaller, yet equally resplendent rotunda. The walls on either side of this magnificent foyer were lined with several fire places, each roaring proudly with crisp green flames. In the center sat a bored-looking intern behind an information desk. At the sight of Polonius and Abram, the young shaggy-haired witch sat up and feigned an attentive posture. The two men gave her a knowing smile.

Despite working in the National Gallery, there was very little work to do on days like today. Tour groups for the wizarding division of the art museum were few and far in between for a number of reasons. Not only was Polonius the lead curator of the gallery, he was the only curator. The Ministry of Magic was less than generous with the grant money it issued to the museum, and the wizarding community didn't seem to mind.

Not only was there a minimal amount of financial support, the museum was also somewhat lacking in magical support as well. The absence of spellwork involved in the job tended to attract a noticeable number of squibs to the profession. Many of these non-magical folk sought the comfort of a workplace where they could be unimpeded by their lack of magic while still maintaining a connection to the wizarding world. Abram was one such squib. At first Polonius found it immensely uncomfortable to perform spells while in the company of Abram, but it wasn't long before he noticed that his fellow co-worker didn't seem to mind at all. He concluded that growing up around wizards, squibs must get used to their own magical shortcomings or else get lost in an inferiority complex.

Polonius took a few meditative breaths as Abram knocked on the office door of their superior. The square partition of glass before them read in small cramped print, "Martin Fig, Chief Executive Director of the entire Department of Magical Art & Culture at the National Gallery of British Art in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

"God, that's always a mouthful, ain't it?" whispered Abram.

Suddenly, the door sprung wide open to reveal a skinny man with long straight hair, slicked back without a strand out of place. "Sorry, what was that about mouthfuls?" he asked, head wobbling slightly as he addressed Abram.

"Oh, oh, nothing at all, sir. I was only telling Polonius about my…breakfast cereal this morning. It was, um, delicious."

"That's the one with the flavored grains and the milk, correct?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Ew."

On that brisk note, the director turned his back on the two wizards and reunited with his desk. Mr. Fig's office was dressed with large regal curtains that caped the pair of windows on the far wall. On the left was a long bookshelf, loosely packed with art books and biographies. And on the right, the wall was dominated by a grand painting with a gilded, leaf-fringed frame. Tybalt stood watching them from beyond the canvas. Whereas the painting in the closet suited him in size, the enormity of this painting only exacerbated his minute figure.

"Good to see you again, Mssrs. Westerhaus and Pavlov," said Tybalt, his hands behind his back in a militant pose. The wizards ignored him and crossed the room.

"Please, take a seat," Mr. Fig told them as he took his place behind the desk. Polonius resisted the temptation to roll his eyes as he and Abram both sat down on the single cramped couch. He couldn't understand why Mr. Fig refused to get more furniture for his office. Having to be squeezed so closely next to a person while the boss spoke down to him felt like some petty form of well-cushioned torture.

"You're probably wondering why I called you in here," said Mr. Fig, looking both of them in the eye.

"It's about the move isn't it?" Polonius replied, "Seems fairly routine. The fact that it's the-"

"That particular piece," Mr. Fig interrupted, "is going to require a special degree of attention during the process of removal. It's stood in this gallery alone for several decades now and I'm sure you are both aware of its...historical significance.

The two wizards nodded solemnly.

"This transfer has even grabbed the attention of those above. For security reasons, the whole process must be conducted internally. It must be done yourselves and preferably with discretion."

"Those above?" Abram asked, "You don't mean-"

"Yes, the Minister of Magic has contacted me about this matter directly."

"There's a shock," Polonius remarked. "I wonder how something like this ended up on their desks."

"It is none of your concern," said Mr. Fig, head wobbling like it was balanced on a pivot. He looked like one of those bobbleheads they had in the muggle gift shop. "Your job is not to voice your speculations. It's to smoothly complete the transfer without compromising the artistic value of the piece, or its occupant for that matter. Normally, I wouldn't expect there to be any problems, but this attention from the ministry has me worried."

"So, is it still locked down in Deep Storage?" Abram asked, leaning forward.

"It is momentarily safe in an undisclosed location."

Abram and Polonius shared a quizzical look as Mr. Fig stood up from his own chair to gaze out of the heavily draped window behind him. The two wizards waited for their boss to continue speaking, but now he seemed lost in thought.

"So," said Polonius, breaking the silence, "I assume this will be a standard carry-along portkey transfer?"

"That is correct. I've spoken with the headmistress personally about allowing the two of you to pass through the barrier for a brief period of time. You will have a tight schedule, Polonius, so _no smoke breaks_."

Polonius shifted sheepishly in his tiny corner of the sofa.

"Disgusting habit, that is," Mr. Fig remarked with condescension. "But I digress… I will keep you each updated about the exact time of the transfer. For now, you may return to your duties. That will be all."

The wizards stood up from their cramped seat and bid their bobble-headed boss adieu. _Duties_ , Polonius scoffed as he and Abram left the office, _like there's really anything that needs my immediate attention_.

KABOOM!

"What in the world was that?!" Abram gasped, looking at Polonius in bewilderment.

Without another word, the two men booked it across the foyer and in the direction of the sound. They were followed by Mr. Fig, who had appeared from his office in an equally shaken state. Whatever the explosion had been, its force had rocked the foundation of the building. A layer of dust and bits of rock was descending from the tall ceiling and filling the air with a veil of debris. Polonius yelled at the intern to find cover as they ran passed the information desk. Mr. Fig was already coughing through a field of smoke as the three wizards ran down the hallway and back towards the coat room.

"The muggles…" Abram spoke with little more than a whisper as they neared the entrance. Polonius and Mr. Fig nodded in agreement. The explosion had come from outside the inner sanctum of the magical museum, somewhere amongst the crowds of muggles that lie beyond. If the three wizards were going to offer any magical form of emergency assistance, it would have to be with some discretion. They each equipped their wands and stepped through the rectangular entrance.

What lay beyond the coat room was surreal, even by magical standards. Laying curled in a curtain of fog were the echo of screams and shadowy shapes somewhere between the wizards and a great expanse of gray. Distance was suddenly impossible to measure. Alarms rang muffled and smothered from every direction. The dusty atmosphere had obscured Polonius's sight, but he could tell that what lay before them was a mess of ruins and injury. It was as if the ground had coughed and let loose an unearthly storm.

Polonius, Abram, and Mr. Fig stared into the abyss of their former workplace, unable to react. They absorbed the disturbing scene while a sense of growing consciousness took hold. Finally, as if the force of the explosion hit him a second time, Polonius was snapped back into the moment by Abram.

"W-what do we do?" asked the squib, looking for an answer that none of them had. Less than an hour ago Polonius had been standing upon the steps of the museum, admiring the open air. Now everything lay in shadow. The very light of day had been snuffed from sky.

"We need to help," said Polonius, abandoning his normally laid back demeanor. He wasn't sure how they would do it, but he knew it needed to be done. "For now, forget the rules. We'll split up and save as many as we can."

Mr. Fig scoffed at Polonius's remark about the law, or perhaps he was momentarily overcome by the chemical haze. Either way, the three of them spread out across the alien landscape, wands held high.

" _Lumos_!" whispered Polonius, casting a beam of light from the tip of his wand. It brought only a few feet of his surroundings into view, but it was enough. He held it high, letting the beam seep through the dust like an off-kilter car light. Polonius squinted through the grandeur and desolation—layered gradations of smoke penetrating the bubble of light, causing it to billow with a tent-like effect where the edges of his vision crawled. The crumbling ground beneath his feet was littered with wreckage and knickknacks. Scraps of tissue paper, broken eyeglasses, handbags, purses, pens, wallets, and cell phones swam into view. Polonius stumbled through the ruin like he was drunk, a feeling he was quite used to. But in this vacuum, he struggled to gain any sense of his ever-expanding surroundings. On his left hung a sheet of vaporous chalk with no discernible shape, and on his right was a mountain of hot shredded wreckage where the roof, or the wall, or the floor should have been. Polonius couldn't distinguish between where gravity was and where it should have been. He crawled across strange slants and displaced rock as if lost in a field of golden Limbo Mist.

Polonius called out and listened intermittently while crawling through the dust. For a time, it was as if all sound had been pulled from the air. The echo of screams remained, but it paled in comparison to the suspenseful silence that filled the chamber. If he focused, he could hear the slow crack of rock like an arctic glacier and the impersonal shriek of fire alarms, but they too were lost in the fog.

Polonius wished he knew a bit of weather magic, something to suck the smoke out of the air. But that was quite specialized and never something that had interested him in school. He doubted the others knew anything to combat the chemical haze either.

As the wizard continued to scour the wreckage, he became more aware of the body-like shadows slumped amongst the ruin. At first, they seemed like nothing but dark shapeless hulks, but further inspection revealed that many of them were the remains of the dead. Polonius gripped the gut of his ash-ridden shirt as he stared down upon their chalky figures, torn and tossed about like ragdolls. Collapsed pillars and chunks of ceiling had caused their demise. Polonius had to forcefully turn his head away, telling himself that there may still be those he could help.

Through the frothy wake of churning plaster dust, the wizard stumbled on. A feeling of uncharacteristic loneliness began to grip his addled brain, but not before a nearby voice called out. Polonius shook his head and focused his hearing to confirm that it was not his imagination. With a mixture of fear and relief, his suspicions were confirmed. A body camouflaged in ash seemed to appear before his eyes. Polonius approached the injured woman with caution. As he knelt before her, he laid a gentle hand upon the woman's slight frame—layered in a chalky powder and still as a muggle sculpture. Then, suddenly, her eyes were open—lively eyes, brighter than the tip of his wand. She gave him a weak smile before breaking into a fit of coughs, sickening and wet.

" _Anapneo_!" Polonius spoke with a whisper and a wave of his wand. The woman was immediately freed from the poisonous air infecting her lungs and she began taking deep, pitiful breaths. The wizard hung over her patiently, propping her head up with one hand. Scanning her figure, he noticed a severe gash in her left thigh that was soaking her leg in blood. Polonius had the bare minimum of medical expertise—that is to say, he knew almost nothing. And basic spells could only do so much for the critically injured. He'd have to make do.

Removing the tie from his neck, Polonius wrapped the thin cloth tightly around her thigh to slow the bleeding. _Looks like this damn thing comes in handy after all_ , he thought. Polonius wasn't sure if it would have any effect, but he'd read somewhere that it was important to maintain pressure on the wound. Despite his attempts, the wizard felt woefully unequipped to save this woman's life. For all he knew, she could have torn an artery and would bleed out within a matter of minutes.

"W-wat...water," the woman choked, peering up at him like a pigeon with a crooked neck.

"Yes, of course," Polonius answered, "I'll see what I can do."

With the flick of his wrist, the light from his wand evaporated and they were plunged into the gray darkness of the room. The wizard was not particularly worried about this woman witnessing his slight feats of magic. She was in such a daze that it was unlikely she could tell a wand from a flashlight. Nevertheless, Polonius instinctively hesitated before placing the tip of his wand by the woman's mouth and saying, " _Aguamenti_!" under his breath.

While the woman desperately drank from the fountain of water, Polonius considered his options. He could apparate her to safety, but transporting her in such a state could prove dangerous. The risk of splinching an injured person greatly increases for those not practiced in emergency relocation. The fact that she was a muggle would only complicate things. They were ill-equipped to deal with the side effects of apparition.

Polonius filed through his memories, desperately searching for even the simplest healing spells. It was as if he suddenly felt the utter uselessness of the knowledge contained in his brain. Precious space was wasted on the names of artists and the histories of paintings. How could it all prove so meaningless during these moments that really matter?

The wizard retracted his wand from the woman and regarded her with growing hopelessness. He could attempt to levitate, or even carry her, out of the building. But this place that was once so familiar was now a labyrinth of darkness. Was it better to move her or stay where they were? Was she likely to survive the hike through the deadly wreckage? Were there others out there that were more in need of his immediate attention? Polonius was all out of answers.

A swift movement from behind the wizard then grabbed his attention. Polonius spun around, scanning through the fog and the wreckage. Wisps of light sneaking through the darkness revealed nothing, but he was sure he had heard footsteps.

"Is anybody there?" he called out into the abyss. "Abram? Mr. Fig? Anyone? We need your help."

Polonius was about to illuminate his surroundings once more when the woman at his feet burst into another storm of coughs. Just as the wizard turned his attention back to her shivering form, a breath-taking force struck him square in the back. He felt an evaporation of air from his lungs as the room suddenly spun sideways. There was no pain, no other feeling but a slight sensation of bliss, like the tension released from a snapping mouse trap. The wizard collapsed into a pillow of ash. The last thing Polonius saw were the woman's beautiful, cowering eyes before his vision was overcome by a sickeningly green shadow.


	2. Chapter 1 - Plant Life

Chapter 1 - Plant Life

It was the last summer for young Elliott Ellwood. The last time that he would be considered a regular boy, or at least as regular as any boy with a witch and a wizard for parents could ever be. While most eleven-year-olds were dreading the end of summer, Elliott was finally going to get his chance to become something great with the beginning of this new school year. _Your time to prove your own worth has finally come_ , he told himself. He was determined to become something of importance for the first time in his life.

The July heat was clinging to the air as the days of the month came to a close. Elliott sat, daydreaming on a cool, moss-ridden bench just outside the family's cottage. He was accustomed to spending down time by himself and took this opportunity to appreciate the small estate. Old and overgrown were the most suitable words to describe it. The bricks of the house seemed to connect entirely without a set pattern and many of its walls were hidden beneath a mask of green ivy. The roots of trees grew mercilessly through much of the stonework, while their branches scraped and taunted the wide white windows. It was as if the house were alive and did not belong, as if it were an obstacle that nature sought to conquer.

Through the high wooden ramparts of the Gwydir Forest that surrounded the Chanticleer, Elliott could just make out the small, nearby town of Trefriw. It was a miserable little village, though Elliott had been there many times despite his parents warning against it.

"It's not good to associate with muggles, dear. They're a dreadfully boring lot anyway. And have you seen what they wear? Anyone with a fashion sense such as that is bound to be bad news," warned Elliott's mother, a woman who could be often found strutting around the house in what looked like a beekeeper's suit.

"Muggles are a bit like snargaluffs," Elliott's father would explain. "They require a certain amount of dexterity when dealing with them. You can never let non-magical folk catch you by surprise or you might find yourself being forced down an oral sphincter by prickly vines. Next thing you know, you're stuck sitting out the rest of your days being slowly digested by gelatinous green stomach acid." Sometimes Elliott wondered if his dad knew anything at all about how real people worked, let alone muggles.

Mr. and Mrs. Ellwood were herbologists. They were world-renowned for their published works in _Flesh-Eating Trees of the World_ and for their discovery of a plant-based cure for narcolepsy. Much of the family estate was taken up by several large greenhouses, each filled with countless exotic and magical plants. To say that Elliott's parents were devoted to their work would be an understatement. Their work was their lives and Elliott was merely along for the ride.

It was for this reason that Elliott found himself sitting outside, alone on that very lazy afternoon, watching the sun slowly descend in the sky. It was 5 o'clock and nearly time for supper. Elliott assumed that Wingret, the family's house elf, was already preparing the meal. _Maybe today mum and dad will have time to eat dinner with me_ , Elliott thought with a touch of sarcasm as he got to his feet and scurried into the house.

To his surprise, his wish was granted. As he sat there in the dining room waiting to be served, Mr. Ellwood entered and took his usual seat while ranting over the sickened state of his Mongolian Man-eating Rhododendron. "It didn't even take a snap at me once today," he proclaimed with frustration, "and I'm thoroughly disappointed by its lack of appetite. It must be that bogus 'refined' fertilizer that peddler in Diagon Alley sold me. I should've known better than to switch from my own personal organic brand."

"Where's mum?" asked Elliott, quick to turn the subject away from anything that might make _him_ lack an appetite.

"Pakkun almighty!" shouted Mr. Ellwood, clutching his chest, "I had no idea you were sitting there, my boy. You shouldn't sneak up on me like that."

Elliott gave him a quizzical look before responding, "Then who the heck have you been talking to this whole time?"

"The auritiums of course," his father replied, gesturing to the ear-shaped flowers that made up the centerpiece of the dining table. "They're great listeners, you know."

By now the meal had been served, having appeared magically before them. Elliott knew that most of it was home-grown in the family's gardens. It consisted of an assortment of vegetables, some with a suspiciously meat-like consistency and others that anyone would expect to find on the dinner tables of your average wizarding family (peas, carrots, flitchmongaroons, etc). Mr. and Mrs. Ellwood were vegetarians, which Elliott always found somewhat ironic—but as with their many other quirks, he had grown to see it as normal.

"So," Elliott began after an extended period of silence, "where _is_ mum?"

"Greenhouse 3 last time I checked. She's dealing with a particularly meddlesome Norwegian cactus that's proven difficult to keep in its designated pot. You know those frisky Norwegians, always getting a bit too touchy-feely with their neighbors. Did I ever tell you about that woman from Oslo I used to work with? No? She had an awful habit of nicking the buttons right off my waistcoats. I've never been entirely sure how she managed to do it. In fact, I didn't even realize it was her until I found a stash of them in a drawer at her desk. Oh-ho! You can imagine my reaction when I discovered what that wretch was up to! Anyway, she should be joining us shortly."

"The Norwegian woman?"

"No, your mother."

As if on cue, the door to the dining room opened, but it wasn't Mrs. Ellwood. It was the family house elf, Wingret, carrying a large stack of mail. The tiny creature shuffled across the somewhat grandiose dining room with soft, almost soundless footsteps. She came to a stop before Elliott's father, performed an elaborate bow, and then carefully handed him the bundle of envelopes.

"Thank you, Wingret. That'll be all for tonight," said Mr. Ellwood with a wink.

"Yes, Master Emrick." And with another, equally elaborate bow and a sudden crack, the house elf disappeared.

"Looks like there's something here for you, my boy," Mr. Ellwood declared as he shuffled through the mail. He smiled as he handed to Elliott a yellowish envelope addressed in emerald green font:

Mr. E. Ellwood

Second Story Bedroom, Three Doors Down, on the Left

The Chanticleer

Trefriw

Conwy County Borough

Elliott almost fell out of his chair in excitement. He'd been waiting for the day when his letter would arrive for weeks now. Elliott knew who it was from the moment he saw it, but the boy took the time to admire the purple wax seal on the back of the envelope anyway. It was a coat of arms displaying a lion, a serpent, an eagle, and a badger, with a large H emblazoned in the center. Elliott knew what it stood for. The H was for Hogwarts, and this was his Hogwarts acceptance letter.

Elliott looked up to tell his father the exciting news, but Mr. Ellwood had already fled back to his plant sanctuary. Somewhat disappointed but not wishing to wait any longer, Elliott opened the envelope, took out his letter, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

 _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc.)_

Dear Mr. Ellwood,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

 _Filius Flitwick_

Filius Flitwick,

 _Deputy Headmaster_

Elliott breathed a sigh of relief. Holding the letter in his hand was confirmation that he did possess magical abilities and that he was indeed capable of becoming a wizard. He quickly folded up the pages, brought his dishes to the kitchen sink in the next room, and ran off to find his mother to tell her the good news.

The inside of the Ellwood's home was a messy mixture of muted colors. The sponge painted walls of the hallway were a dark shade of textured blue, stark against the aged grey wooden flooring. However, what stood out the most were the elaborate bouquets scattered throughout the house. Grandiose flowers and vibrant plants stood posing around every corner.

Everything was in full bloom, including Elliott, as he ran through the halls and out the carved French door at the back of the house. The boy then raced through the yard, weaving his way through the elaborate fences and gates that framed the countless gardens his family cared for. The Ellwoods maintained a small plantation's worth of land riddled with greenhouses and gardens. For an outsider it might seem impossible for such a small family to keep up with it all on their own, but Elliott's parents employed a number of elaborate spells and charms to make sure the plants they studied were cared for. Their magic also helped keep curious muggles away. To the unsuspecting townsfolk, the Chanticleer appeared to be nothing more than a reclusive estate residing in the nearby forest.

The boy found his mother precisely where his father had told him. As Elliott threw open white paneled door of greenhouse 3, he immediately inhaled a fresh, acrid aroma. It was the kind of scent that would seep into your nostrils and make most people sick, but Elliott had grown up around these pungent plants. The smell no longer fazed him. The boy caught a glimpse of his mother amongst the foliage that dominated the greenhouse. She was wearing a dirty brown apron and a pair of black oversized gloves. Her mousey brown hair, tied up in a bun, was hidden beneath one of those large gardening hats with the drawstrings. Having heard the door open, she quickly glanced up from her wrestling match with the Norwegian cactus. It resembled a tree with a large trunk covered in thick brown bark, but instead of branches it had large obtrusive spines jutting out in every direction.

"What is it, dear? Can't you see I'm a little busy?" said Mrs. Ellwood, struggling with her words beneath the weight of the enormous prickly plant.

"Um, I got my Hogwarts letter today. It actually came, just like you said," Elliott replied, his excitement beginning to waver. He suddenly regretted running all the way over.

"Well of course it did, Elliott. What did you expect?" she said. Her back was to him now as she attempted to pile drive the cactus into its respective pot.

"I'm not sure. I guess I was worried…that it wouldn't?" Elliott was starting to feel silly. Of course he would have gotten a Hogwarts letter. Both his parents were wizards and he'd been showing signs of magic since he was a toddler. There was never any reason to worry.

"I'm assuming there's a list of supplies," his mother called over her shoulder, "We'll have Wingret take you to Diagon Alley this weekend."

"You aren't coming?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Your father and I have an inspection coming up and we haven't even started deadheading the meriflumps yet. Now if you'll excuse me, dear, I have a cactus to attend to."

On that note, Elliott slumped out of the greenhouse and walked back across the yard. _I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up_ , he thought. Elliott was well aware of the upcoming inspection. His parents had a research quota to meet if they were to be allowed to import so many dangerous magical plants. Laws were being more strictly enforced these days, for obvious reasons. To say the national crisis a few years back had caused a bit of a ruckus would be an understatement. But Elliott didn't care about that. All he could think about now was how strange he was going to look having his house elf chaperone his school shopping instead of his parents. The boy traipsed back into his ivy-covered home and took refuge upstairs.

Elliott's bedroom was exactly where his Hogwarts letter said it was—the second story, three doors down, on the left. It was quite spacious as far as bedrooms go, but it helped that his bed had been pushed out of the way and into to the far corner. His desk sat up against the window and was very neatly organized, while his closet overflowed with a messy pile of clothes. Books and parchment lay scattered across the dusty oriental rug that clung to the floorboards beneath. Elliott had made sure Wingret knew never to clean up his space. He worried that if she did he would never be able to find anything again. In general, the bedroom was a very musty place to reside, but it was the only room in the whole house where Elliott felt like himself. And it was the only room in the whole house that was completely devoid of plants.


	3. Chapter 2 - The Inspection

Chapter 2 - The Inspection

Elliott was still feeling pangs of frustration when he awoke on Saturday morning later that week. As he got dressed, the young boy attempted to distract himself by considering all of the exciting books and supplies he would be buying in Diagon Alley that day. Elliott was particularly excited to finally get a wand of his own. He had seen his parents cast spells with their wands hundreds of times and found the magical display absolutely fascinating.

Naturally, most of the books in the Ellwood's home had to do with herbology, and it didn't make sense for Elliott to have any spellbooks of his own if he had no wand. For these reasons, the majority of books on the boy's shelves were about wizarding history and magical creatures. Of course, there were also some children's stories, wizard comics, and muggle fiction here and there, but Elliott was eager to get his hands on books that could teach him something more applicable. He was utterly sick and tired of being handed a volume of Phineas Puylaert's _Encyclopaedia Botanica_ every time he asked his parents for something new to read.

The third thing that Elliott was excited to shop for was a pet. Technically, the Ellwoods already owned two animals, but Elliott didn't count those because they had never really felt like his. The family's masked owl was named Gulfin and he was generally used to send letters and parcels. Elliott always thought the sleek-feathered familiar was a bit eerie. It was as if behind those cold black eyes the owl knew it looked creepy and liked to play along just to mess with the young boy. That is why Elliott hoped he would be allowed to get a new pet. One that was exciting and would truly be his. A pet that would be there when he needed it.

As Elliott whisked through the hallway and down the stairs, he caught the sound of something unusual. There was someone at the front door. It was then that he remembered. _The inspection_ , Elliott thought with disdain. He scanned the house for his parents, but quickly came to the conclusion that they must be doing last minute work in the greenhouses. A second knock on the door echoed through the hallway. Elliott grew wide-eyed, realizing that he was going to be the one stuck answering the door. Only after the third knock came did the boy nervously resign to turn the knob and let the stranger in.

"Good morning!" shouted a middle-aged wizard in bright neon green robes. "My name's Mitchum Grady and I'm the inspector from the Office of Herbological Affairs and Research."

"N-nice to, uh, meet you," said the boy. Elliott forced a smile across his face, attempting to quell his nervous stutter.

"Now I must say, I was expecting the esteemed Emrick Ellwood to be a tad older than yourself," joked the wizard as he hunched over to meet the boy eye-to-eye. Elliott couldn't help but notice the intense glare reflecting off the inspector's shiny bald head.

"My parents are probably out back in the yard," replied Elliott, unfazed by the inspector's quip and trying to ignore the demeaning way in which the man now spoke to him.

"Ah, yes of course! Would you be so kind as to lead the way?"

Elliott reluctantly guided the inspector around the house and across the property. The boy stayed silent while Mr. Grady listed off a series of compliments regarding the state of the family's many gardens, as if Elliott had grown them all himself. When they arrived at the nearest row of greenhouses, Elliott called out for his mother.

"Oh dear, my sincerest apologies," exclaimed Mrs. Ellwood as she burst from the door of greenhouse 5. She was closely followed by her husband. "You must be Mr. Grady. We weren't expecting you for another hour."

"Please, call me Mitchum," replied the inspector, "And yes, I believe I may be a bit early. But you know what they say, 'the early Brazilian zogglefain catches the rain'." This remark sent all three adults into a small fit of laughter and Elliott into an uncomfortable moment of exclusion.

As Mr. Ellwood began leading the colorfully clad wizard into one of the greenhouses, Mrs. Ellwood spun on her heels to address Elliott, who had been about to join them.

"Thank you for bringing Mr. Grady over here, dear. But now I'm sure you'd rather run along than sit through these boring research evaluations," said Elliott's mother. And while part of Elliott agreed, he still hated the idea of being cut out.

"Okay, but will we still be going to Diagon Alley today?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes of course," replied Mrs. Ellwood, no longer looking at Elliott. She was now leaning over to peek through the window of the greenhouse and see the examination taking place inside. "Wingret can take you as soon as you're ready to leave. But please stick to the list today, Elliott. We don't need you going out and buying a sneakoscope like last time."

"Alright fine, but will I still be able to get my own familiar?" the boy asked hopefully.

"A familiar?" Mrs. Ellwood stood back up to look at Elliott. "Why on earth would you need a pet when we already have one for you?"

Now Elliott was getting worried. If he had to deal with that creepy owl staring at him the whole time at Hogwarts, it would drive him mad. But the young boy had prepared for this specific turn of events. Elliott's brain reeled as he quickly began to recite a comprised list of excuses.

"Yeah, but Gulfin is technically Dad's owl. And I can't use it if I'm going all the way to Hogwarts, because you wouldn't be able to send any letters. And I'm sure Dad would miss him terribly. And—"

"No, dear. I'm talking about Georgia," Mrs. Ellwood cut in.

"Georgia?" Elliott was thoroughly confused. Georgia was the second animal that belonged to the Ellwoods. She was an Aesculapian snake with smooth tan scales and a distinctively dark spotted pattern running down the length of her body. Elliott found the snake to be rather boring. He didn't like the idea of bringing Georgia to Hogwarts any more than Gulfin. "Mom, the list says I'm only allowed an owl, a cat, or a toad. And how am I supposed to send any letters?"

Mrs. Ellwood tapped her foot impatiently. "Elliott Edgar Ellwood. Plenty of children bring pets that are not the prescribed familiars, Georgia is perfectly suited to contribute to any of your Hogwarts studies, and there are plenty of owls provided by the school that are specifically intended for student use."

Elliott stood angrily with his arms crossed, refusing to meet his mother's eyes.

"I really don't want to have this argument right now, Elliott," Mrs. Ellwood complained. "Your father and I are quite busy in case you couldn't tell." And just like that, she jumped off to join the inspection, leaving Elliott alone all over again.

Elliott stalked back across the yard. He felt a mix of frustrated emotions coursing through his body. His parents were barely willing to give him the time of day, but when Elliott did finally manage to grab their attention, all they wanted was to tell him what to do.

After Elliott kicked his way back into the house, he began scouring each room for the reclusive snake that was to be his pet. Elliott remembered how he and Georgia used to play hide-n-go-seek when he was younger. The snake usually won because its coloring made it so difficult to find, but the young boy learned quickly that she had a few favorite hiding spots around the house. And if Elliott ever did manage to corner Georgia, she was relatively friendly. For that reason, the family normally allowed Georgia to snoop about the house to her heart's content. The man that gave her to them insisted that she had vast magical properties, but Elliott had concluded long ago that it was a bit of a sham. The long, slender snake seemed to hold no secrets other than an aversion to hibernation. Mr. Ellwood suspected that Georgia had been charmed to turn her warm-blooded, but that wasn't something Elliott found particularly impressive.

He found the snake coiled up beneath the sofa by the empty fireplace. She stuck out her tongue mockingly before attempting to escape, but Elliott managed to catch her. Her scales felt smooth and cool against his skin as she resigned to wrap herself around his arm.

"Looks like you're coming with me to Hogwarts," he told Georgia, frowning. The snake didn't respond but began to slither her way up through Elliott's sleeve.

"You better not scare anybody away," the boy continued as Georgia cautiously crept her head out from Elliott's collar.

Georgia blinked at him silently before responding with a small hiss.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," said Elliott with slight smile.

After returning Georgia to her cozy corner beneath the couch, Elliott called for Wingret. The tiny house elf appeared before him instantaneously with a crack.

"Good morning, Sir Grand Exalted Master Elliott!" she squeaked with a silly salute that made Elliott smile again. Long ago, Elliott asked Wingret to stop referring to him as "master" but she adamantly refused. They had gone back and forth with one another until a compromise was finally reached. From then on, when speaking to Elliott and while not in the presence of adults, Wingret would address him in the most ridiculously elaborate way possible. Elliott figured that at least this way it felt like they shared an inside joke rather than a formal title.

"Good morning, Wingret. We're going to Diagon Alley today."

"Yes, yes, Supreme Lord Marshal Elliott's mother tolds Wingret. She has instructed Wingret to gives you this coin purse," the house elf eyed the velvet, gold-clasped coin purse nervously, "…and to not lets you buy any more books thans is on the list."

Elliott sighed, taking the money from the apprehensive house elf. He had been planning to secretly buy his second year textbooks in order to read ahead. The boy felt he had missed out on magic for far too long and he was eager to learn as much as he could. _No pets? No extra books? This is ridiculous_ , he thought, _but at least I'll finally be able to get my own wand_.

Holding out his hand, Elliott then said, "Okay Wingret, please take us to Diagon Alley."

The bug-eyed elf gave him a toothy grin as she grabbed his hand. The last thing Elliott heard was a sudden crack. As his vision blurred, he felt like his body was being turned inside out and squeezed into an infinitely small space. It wasn't the first time Elliott had been side-along apparated, but it was a sensation he had yet to get used to. Less than a moment later, they reappeared. Elliott was still clutching Wingret's hand tightly while he gained his bearings. He took a deep breath as he recognized the bustling scene play out before him. Staring down that familiar avenue, the boy felt all his worries and frustrations disappear. Elliott smiled, knowing that his future was only an alley away.


	4. Chapter 3 - Books and Boxes

Chapter 3 - Books and Boxes

"Rightio, now likes I said we mustn't spends too much," said Wingret with a squeak.

Elliott barely heard another word as he began marching through the thick crowds of the narrow street. People rushed past him dressed in flamboyant robes and tall, peaked hats. Others dawned more simple attire. There were clothes that could have nearly passed on any muggle city street. However, the same certainly couldn't be said for the shops.

The winding cobblestone street was packed with an assortment of stalls, restaurants, and stores. Each proudly displayed its wares behind large rectangular windows. Through the tinted glass of each shop, Elliott could spot everything—from bat wings and cauldrons to slug juice and broomsticks. Signs boasting 20% off wand polish and buy one get one free on double-decker spatulas. It would've been overwhelming for someone who had never been there, but Elliott had been tagging along on his family's shopping trips for years. This time, however, was different.

"Sir Master Elliott! Oh please, sir, slow down," cried Wingret as she struggled to keep up with the boy and avoid being trampled by the crowds.

"I don't have time to slow down! There's too much to do!" Elliott declared, snaking through the hordes of shoppers with determination. There were books to buy, robes to tailor, wands to wield. His hands fumbled through his pockets as he slowed to a halt, looking for his list of necessary school supplies. Wingret bumped into his leg upon the sudden stop. "Okay, okay, let's see here…"

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

 _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

Three sets of plain work robes (black)

One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

One pair of protective gloves (dragonhide or similar)

One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all students clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

 _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk

 _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot

 _The Theory of Modern Magic_ by Marsel Oppenheimer

 _The New Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch

 _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore

 _Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger

 _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander

 _Defending Against the Dark_ by Athena Waynesborough

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

"Let's get the books first!" Elliott declared. Towing Wingret by the wrist, the boy then raced off to one of his favorite shops in the whole market.

Flourish & Blotts was found on the North Side of Diagon Alley. As to be expected this time of year, it was a madhouse. There were witches and wizards of all ages scouring the shelves that towered above their heads. Elliott found his gaze getting lost in the rafters as his eyes followed the columns of books curling and twisting their way precipitously towards the ceiling. Entire stacks could be seen floating from place to place, magically rearranging their order all by themselves. Leaflets and scraps of parchments zoomed through the air, dodging heads and slipping through shelves before finding a home amongst the folds of a dusty book.

Elliott smiled at all the excitement. In a place like this, there was never a lonely soul in sight.

The young boy began making his way through the shop. The list of books every first year was expected to bring was relatively long, and they were bound to be hard to find in these crowds.

"Now let's have a look… _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Spore." Elliott rolled his eyes. He was positive that his family already owned this book. In fact, Elliott had met Phyllida Spore on numerous occasions and found her to be an utterly boring old hag. Not only that, but Elliott felt somewhat unimpressed with anyone whose only claim to fame was essentially an encyclopedia.

The boy moved on with his list, checking off books as he and Wingret wandered up and down the shop's narrow aisles.

" _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ by Miranda Goshawk," read Elliott, plucking the text from a nearby shelf.

" _Defending Against the Dark_ bys the miss Athena Waynesborough," chimed his house elf companion from across the row.

"Thank you, Wingret," said Elliott, adding the book to the slowly growing stack he was carrying. "Next is _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot."

"More like Bathilda Bag-shit, am I right?" The voice came from the other side of the shelf.

"Um...excuse me?" Elliott turned, not sure whether to laugh or scold whoever had spoken. Peering through the cracks left by missing books, Elliott discovered a round-faced boy roughly his age staring right back. The kid laughed as he disappeared. Elliott shook his head dismissively and was just about to continue his shopping when the boy re-emerged around the corner.

"Well, well, well, if it ain't another first year," said the boy as he strode down the aisle, playfully plucking books off their shelves and tossing them over his shoulder as he went.

"How do you know I'm a first year?" asked Elliott defensively.

"Oh please, a poor snot like you has got it written all over that freckled face."

Elliott already knew he wasn't going to like this kid, and not just because of the way he was treating those books. Elliott looked over towards his house elf for support, but she was momentarily distracted—her nose buried in this month's issue of _Playwiz Magazine_. Elliott shook his head hopelessly. In a situation like this, what kind of support was he expecting from Wingret anyway?

"And because I'm a first year too," the boy continued, "I'm here getting the same books you are."

"Uh, y-you mean those ones?" asked a confused Elliott. He glanced over the boy's shoulder at the spellbooks that littered the floor in his wake.

"What? No, fuck, forget those," he said dismissively. "What's your name?"

"Oh, um, I'm Elliott," he answered, struggling to politely offer his hand without dropping his stuff.

"A handshake?" The boy burst into a fit of laughter, his shaggy brown hair flopping about. "Man, you really are a fucking langer. What do I look like to you? The Minister of Magic?

"R-right, yeah… sorry," he replied, feeling foolish. "Um, anyway what's your name?"

"Augustus!" A shrill voice roared from down the aisle. Both boys turned to see a skinny middle-aged woman with a furious look on her face. "Did _you_ make this mess?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, mum. It was uuhhh… that thing!" declared the boy named Augustus, pointing a crooked finger at Wingret. The poor house elf, having suddenly been thrust into the conversation, attempted to disguise her copy of _Playwiz_ with a blush.

"That's enough!" the woman yelled. Any louder and she'd be causing a scene. "Put those books back this instant or, so help me, you're gonna get hexed into yesterday!"

"Yes, mother," Augustus sighed, resigning to clean up his mess as his mother walked off.

Elliott stood there for a moment, weighing his options. At last he decided it couldn't hurt to at least lend the boy a helping hand.

"Oi, fuck off," Augustus spat before Elliott could even begin. "It's my mess. I can fucking handle it."

Elliott took a deep breath, refusing to feel intimidated. He was getting real tired of this kid's attitude. "Y-you know, you really ought to watch your mouth."

"And y-y-you really ought to watch _your_ mouth, ya stuttering git."

Elliott didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't well practiced in the art of exchanging insults. For that matter, Elliott wasn't very well practiced in the art of making friends either.

"I suppose I'll be seeing more of you at Hogwarts," said Augustus, having finished putting each of the books back. "Catch you later, Shakes." And with a sarcastic bow and a punch to Elliott's chest, the other boy stalked off.

After that, Elliott quickly found the rest of his books. He waddled up to the register, heaved his stack of textbooks up onto the counter, and paid the bearded clerk eleven Galleons for the lot. Wingret was kind enough to magically send the books back home and save them the trouble of carrying them around.

Elliott left Flourish & Blotts with a renewed spring in his step. He knew he wanted his next stop to be Ollivanders, but the wand salesman was located far on the South Side of Diagon Alley. Wingret suggested that they might as well purchase their other supplies while on the way there. Unable to argue with her logic, Elliott agreed to continue their shopping elsewhere first.

Madame Malkin's was the best place in Diagon Alley to go for Hogwarts uniforms. Elliott found that robe fittings went by surprisingly fast, so long as you didn't fidget. Potage's Cauldron Shop was a nice enough place, but Elliott was overwhelmed by the owner's pushiness to buy some of his other wares. The plump Mr. Potage insisted that the pewter, standard size 2 was such a lackluster cauldron and that Elliott should at least look at the diamond-encrusted Dragon's BellyTM model 2.0. The boy barely left with his coin purse intact.

Elliott and Wingret made their way south down the street, checking off supplies here and there. They passed by Quality Quidditch Supplies and Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. They passed by the headquarters of the Daily Prophet, where freshly printed newspapers read "Three Wizards Dead in Muggle Terrorist Attack" on the front page. They passed by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and Elliott had to resist the urge to join the riotous crowds of people inside. His parents hadn't given him enough money to buy anything extra anyway.

Elliott stared wistfully into the windows of Eeylop's Owl Emporium as he walked by the pet store. The boy only moved after being goaded along by Wingret. _So what if I don't get an owl? It's not like I have any friends to write letters to anyway._ Elliott continued down the cobblestone avenue dragging his feet.

The boy's spirits were somewhat lifted by the sight of Ollivanders wand shop in the distance. The entrance sat between a pair of two story bay windows, each displaying boxes of polished wands upon decorative velvet cloth. Jutting out from the entryway hung an inconspicuous wooden sign that read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC_. Elliott was now shaking with excitement.

The young boy and his elfish companion entered the shop cautiously. However, the ringing of a bell by the door announced their arrival with fervor. To Elliott's relief, the musty wand shop wasn't particularly crowded. He stood by the door while two other patrons purchased their wands.

As Elliott waited, he allowed his mind wander. The front of the shop was taken up by a counter and small waiting area, while the back of the shop was dominated by long rows of shelves. Each shelf was tightly packed with narrow black boxes, and each box contained a magic wand. There was a curved staircase leading up to another floor with even more boxes.

There must have been hundreds of them. Everyone knew that Ollivander made each and every one of his wands by hand, but Elliott found himself wondering if the same was true for his boxes. Was Elliott expected to believe that Mr. Ollivander was a wandmaker _and_ part-time boxmaker? Perhaps he bought them from a wizarding box supplier. Elliott had never heard of such a thing. Even the thought of a magical boxing company sounded ridiculous to him. Maybe Mr. Ollivander bought all his boxes from a non-magical manufacturer. But would that mean most wizarding businesses used muggle-made boxes? Was the entire wizarding world secretly piggybacking off of the muggle box industry?

"Good afternoon, young man, how may I help you?"

Elliott snapped back and realized he had been daydreaming again. Feeling stupid, the boy looked up to see Mr. Ollivander looming over him. "I umm...uh…"

"I presume you're here to buy a wand," said the old man. The wrinkles upon his aging face deepened as he gave Elliott a knowing smile.

"Uh, oh yeah. I mean yes, sir. That's what I'm here for," said Elliott, biting his tongue.

"No surprise there. Alright then lad, let me get a good look at you." Mr. Ollivander grabbed Elliott by the shoulders and sat him down in a stool by the counter. The old man then took a step back and stared at him with a pair of wide, pale eyes.

"Left handed?" the wizened wizard asked.

Elliott nodded.

"Born on the…14th of April?"

Elliott nodded again and was about to ask how he guessed that when Mr. Ollivander suddenly whipped out a tongue depressor and stuck it in the boy's mouth.

"Say 'ah' please."

Elliott complied with puzzlement.

"Interesting…" the man said to himself. Then, with misty eyed curiosity, he asked, "When you sleep, which direction do your feet point? North or south?"

"Uuhhhhh...noufgh?" Elliott honestly wasn't sure, but Mr. Ollivander seemed satisfied with his garbled answer. Without another word, the wandmaker removed the stick from Elliott's mouth and whisked off down one of the aisles.

As Mr. Ollivander picked away at his shelves, he continued to engage Elliott, "Wands are made in a wide variety magical woods and cores all around the world. Each wandmaker has his or her own techniques that they bring to the craft. I, for example, use strictly phoenix feathers, unicorn hairs, and dragon heartstrings for the wand core. I have found that they provide more power and reliability than can be found in wands of other makers. Of course, the strength of a wand also depends on the wood with which it's paired. And on the will of its—… what did you say your name was, young man?" The shop owner's glassy eyes peeked out from behind a shelf as he paused to address the boy.

"Elliott," said Elliott, feeling reluctant to add his last name. He figured someone like Ollivander would recognize him for his parents if he said he was an Ellwood. It did happen from time to time.

"Right then, Elliott. A wand's power hinges upon the connection it builds with its owner," he said, resuming his search. "But like I always say, the wand chooses the wizard!"

Elliott's shyness and confusion gave way to curiosity as Mr. Ollivander continued to lecture him about the basics of wandcraft. Eventually, the man reappeared with a stack of narrow boxes in hand. Placing them on the table, Ollivander removed a wand and handed it to the boy.

"Larch with a phoenix core. Twelve inches, slightly springy."

Elliott held the wand, unsure of exactly what he should do with it. Mr. Ollivander seemed to be waiting.

"Well, go on!" said the man impatiently, "At least strike a pose or something."

Elliott awkwardly raised the wand, taking on what he thought might be a heroic stance.

"Absolutely not," Ollivander proclaimed, swiping the wand out of the boy's hand and gently returning it to its box. Elliott was left wondering if he had done something wrong.

"Perhaps this," said the wizard, presenting him with a beautifully colored wand. "Silver Lime with Unicorn hair. Eleven and a half—hold on, do you brush your teeth twice a day?"

"Um, usually."

"Well then, nevermind that," the wandmaker declared, hastily pulling the wand back before Elliott could even lay a finger on it.

Elliott was feeling more and more uncomfortable with each wand that was put back in its box. If Mr. Ollivander was right and wands did indeed choose their wizards, then it occurred to Elliott that this meant he was being rejected, over and over again.

"Not to worry," said the old man, reading the boy's expression with his pale, glassy eyes. "You've only seen twelve wands so far—sometimes it takes a few tries. Why, I've had wizards and witches sit for hours looking for their perfect match. And they always leave satisfied."

Twelve different wands hardly seemed like a "few." Elliott didn't like the idea of spending hours in this musty shop, waving unfriendly wands and answering Mr. Ollivander's strange questions. But he took the man's reassuring words and buried his doubts.

"Now, let's see here, I've always liked a challenge." The elderly wizard disappeared once again, mumbling to himself. "Perhaps...yes, yes, why not? Better than letting it collect any more dust on this shelf."

Finally returning to Elliott, the shop owner showed the boy a sleek wand with an ornate beakish crest at the base and intricate carvings running up to the tip.

"This wand probably belongs in a museum, but what use would that be?" he chuckled. "Alder wood, contains a heartstring from one of the last known Beerenberg Moth Dragons. Fourteen and a half inches, reasonably supple."

Elliott took the wand in his hand and gave it a perfunctory wave. To the boy's surprise, a wispy plume of smoke began to emit from the end of the wand. Not ashy and hot like the fumes of a crackling fire, but cool and misty—almost like that of a cloud. The smoke rose into the air, curling gently before dissipating completely. Elliott looked to Mr. Ollivander whose wide eyes twinkled with interest.

"So, does that mean it picked me?" the boy asked.

"In layman's terms, yes," said the smiling wizard.

Elliott looked back down at his wand with a righteous grin. His feelings of anxiousness were immediately replaced by a desire to understand what this actually meant. He stared down at the magical tool in his hands. It seemed so strange that this thin strip of wood contained such an immense potential for power. He swore he could feel it humming in his fingertips, eager to be put to use. How could that be?

"Sir, you say the wand chose me. How? Why?"

Mr. Ollivander appeared pleased by the boy's question. "Wands are quasi-sentient in a way that no person can fully comprehend. They are capable of channelling any wizard's magic— and yet, each is unique in nature and temperament. They yearn to establish a more personal bond with the witch or wizard that suits them. You ask me _why_ this wand picked you—that is a question I'm not entirely qualified to answer, young man."

"What do you mean?"

"The wand swore allegiance to you because it felt a connection. Exactly why that connection grew into existence—well, who's to say?

"But what would happen if no wand would pick a wizard? What if a wizard was picked by two different wands? Why is a wand sentient but a tree isn't? How can a stick of wood be alive? You said dragon heartstring before, did you mean from a real live dragon? Do you have to slay the dragons yourself to get the heartstrings? How do you get the heartstring inside of the wand? What makes the core so important? Is that where the sentience comes from?"

The questions flooded from Elliott's mouth while the wandmaker waited patiently. The thoughts he usually kept all bottled up were erupting as his curiosity peaked. Elliott had never realized that wands possessed such deep, magical secrets. To him growing up, wands were just sticks of wood that a wizard used to make magic. That was simply the way it worked. There was never any mystery about it.

Mr. Ollivander gave Elliott a stern look before answering. "Those are quite a lot of questions, young man, and they would take quite a lot of time to answer. Regrettably, time that neither of us have."

"...how long?"

The wandmaker sighed but gave Elliott another smile. "Judging from the breadth of your curiosity, very many years. Wandlore is a mysterious and complex branch of magic and requires a lifetime of study in order to be understood and appreciated.

Elliott considered the man's explanation. He stood pondering over the questions that still threatened to overflow. "May I at least ask one more question?"

"Perhaps."

"Where do you get your boxes from?"

Mr. Ollivander gave him a puzzled look and chuckled, "A magical box company supplies me with them."

Elliott was slightly disappointed by this answer, but he kept to his word and didn't bombard the man with any more questions. The boy paid Mr. Ollivander seven Galleons and thanked him for the wand. Moments later, he and Wingret were back on the streets of Diagon Alley.

As they resolved to return home, Elliott considered Wingret for the first time since they had entered Ollivanders. The boney house elf hadn't said one word while he was being waited on, and the boy found himself wondering how she must have felt surrounded by all those wands. Elliott knew that house elves were forbidden from owning or using wands by the wizarding community, but he wasn't entirely sure why. House elves had power all their own, but they only used it with the permission of their master. They didn't need a wand to perform their magic.

The sudden pop of apparition shook the boy out of his train of thought. They had left the crowded wizarding streets of Diagon Alley and were back home. Wingret bowed to Elliott as he thanked her for her company and dismissed her. With another pop, the house elf disappeared, leaving Elliott to wonder if the lack of a wand really made her any less magical.


	5. Chapter 4 - On Shaky Ground

Chapter 4 - On Shaky Ground

According to Elliott's parents, the inspection went well. The representative had approved their commission and told them that the Office of Herbological Affairs and Research would review their request for another dozen Halifax Gibbaeums. While his parents were relieved, Elliott couldn't care less. His parents would now be busier than ever, and the boy resigned to spending the remainder of the month hidden in his room. He found plenty of time to delve into his school books, absorbing as much of the information as he could. Growing up in an herbology-obsessed household, Elliott's experience with the magical world outside of plants felt limited. All of a sudden, he was learning about realms of magic he had only dreamed of and spells he didn't even know existed.

"Did you know," said Elliott, curled up in his bed, eyes fixed on the open pages before him, "that in 1378 there was an economic crash caused by a blizzard of soap?"

The boy turned to Georgia, who was slowly coiling around his bed post.

"I didn't even think people used soap back then," he proclaimed. The snake didn't seem nearly as baffled by this information as Elliott was.

Mr. and Mrs. Ellwood were even less interested in his newfound knowledge. On the night before Elliott was due to leave for school, his parents treated him to one of those rare family dinners. The three of them ate their meal in a prolonged silence, only emphasized by the clinking of silverware and the slow munching of food.

"Did you know-"

"No talking with your mouth full, dear," corrected his mother.

Elliott hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of sprouts and continued, "Did you know that-"

"Hold that thought, boy," interrupted his father, "I'm just remembering I left the shovel running." Mr. Ellwood took out his wand and gave it a brief wave before returning it to his pocket. The family was left to assume that the shovel had indeed stopped what it was doing, wherever it was. "Please continue."

Elliott sped through his sentence before he could be cut off again. "Did you know that there are crabs in Fiji that can shoot flames out their rear end?"

"Elliott! That is entirely inappropriate talk at the dinner table," scolded Mrs. Ellwood.

"But-"

"I'll have to side with your mother on this one," Mr. Ellwood added. "I thought we had raised you better than to bring up defecating crustaceans while people are eating."

The conversation deteriorated from there. Elliott went to bed feeling a mixture of frustration and anxiousness. With Wingret's help, he packed his things and double checked his list of supplies. It seemed like everything was ready to for him to leave, including his parents. Elliott barely slept that night.

The next day it was decided that Mr. Ellwood would take his son to King's Cross in order to see him off. Elliott half expected his parents to simply make Wingret take him again, but perhaps his father did have a modicum of interest in being there on this special occasion. Elliott's mother apologized for not being able to join them and offered some excuse about needing to watch the grass grow. However, just as they were walking out the door, she began prodding and fussing over Elliott with a level of attention that he was not used to.

"Are you sure you have everything you need? Robes? Wand? Extra underwear?"

"Yes, mom."

"Goodness your hair is a mess, let me just fix it real quick."

"It's fine, mom."

"Don't forget to brush your teeth twice a day!"

"I won't forget!"

And just like that he was out the door, led by his father down the long front pathway. Elliott clutched Georgia's terrarium and heaved his thick black trunk across the cobblestones. He had insisted on carrying them himself. The front edge of the property was identified by a pair of brick columns atop of which stood two large roosters carved out of stone. When they reached the wrought iron gate that swung in between, Mr. Ellwood wrapped an arm around his son's shoulder and held him tightly. Looking back briefly, Elliott said goodbye to the Chanticleer, with all its green magnificence. The boy had never seen it look as overgrown as it did in that moment.

In the blink of an eye, the scene disappeared. Elliott shut his eyes as he felt the familiar squeeze and popping in his ears. When the sensation ended, the boy reopened his eyes to find himself in the cramped stall of a public bathroom. Elliott looked up at his father in confusion. Mr. Ellwood seemed equally surprised.

"Seems I may have missed our mark a bit," he said, removing a watery foot from inside the toilet. He looked down at Elliott bashfully. "That's what I get for trying to apparate you and all your luggage at once."

The two withdrew from the stall inconspicuously, but not before Mr. Ellwood insisted on flushing the toilet in order to appear "natural" just in case there was anyone listening. To Elliott's relief, the bathroom was empty, and they exited into a cafe that was nestled across the street from King's Cross station.

"Ha! There we go," said Mr. Ellwood, "I knew we couldn't have been that far off.

Less than ten minutes later, Elliott and his father were marching through the station towards Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The crowds of people reminded Elliott of the busyness of Diagon Alley, but the difference here was that everyone was a muggle. Mr. Ellwood appeared unconcerned by this, but Elliott was not used to the feeling of being surrounded by so many non-magical folks. The boy knew plenty about muggles, but they suddenly seemed so different up close. It was like reading about giraffes your entire life and then getting to meet one in person. Yet, at the same time, it was nothing like that because the muggles looked no different and acted no different than he did. They were just going about their business, paying no mind to either the boy or his father.

Elliott had always been taught by his parents to tell the truth and to respect his elders. Except, when it came to muggles, the rules were never that simple. The boy was still expected to behave politely and be courteous towards adults, but being a wizard required him to defy muggle authority in a way that they weren't even aware of. He wasn't doing anything illegal, but even as a child he had a duty to lie to an entire population of people. It was only during moments such as these that Elliott felt like he was being trusted to keep the biggest secret in the world.

When they arrived at the area between platforms nine and ten, Mr. Ellwood smiled down at his son with an almost wistful look in his eyes.

"I remember my first time…"

"What happened?"

"I tripped on my shoelaces and ended up caught in between here and the hidden platform. I frightened quite a few muggles when they saw my flailing bottom half sticking out of the barrier."

"How do I make sure that doesn't happen to me?" Elliott asked, suddenly scared.

"Keep your shoes tied tight," Mr. Ellwood replied with a chuckle, and just like that he strolled up to the wall and disappeared through it.

The boy wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and nervously approached the barrier at a brisk pace. Just as he was about to collide with the wall, Elliott shut his eyes in anticipation. But like his father, he kept on moving forward through cool darkness until a burst of light revealed the other side. Elliott inhaled sharply at the sight laid out before his eyes.

Beyond the veil of wispy smoke emanating from the tracks before him, Elliott looked in amazement upon the magnificence of the Hogwarts Express. Through pestering his parents, Elliott had heard about the magical train that took young witches and wizards to school, but clearly his mother and father had left out some details. For starters, it was painted a bold scarlet red, whereas Elliott had always imagined it being a deep forest green. In addition, he always assumed it would look like a modern muggle train, based on the photos he had seen in his picture books—but it surprised him. The boy stared in awe at the classic steam locomotive, shining like a trophy atop a set of train tracks that stretched out of the station. A sign hung by the side of the train, partially obscured by smoke, proudly displayed the words "Hogwarts Castle." Elliott knew he was in the right place.

The boy's father stood a few paces ahead, looking out across the crowd of wizards that hustled and bustled through hugs and goodbyes. Elliott joined him, the foggy image of the station drowning out the noise in his mind.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" said Mr. Ellwood after a few moments.

The boy turned his head upon the hordes of people. They moved in stark contrast to the muggles outside. There was such an intensity in their movements and intentions that they simultaneously seemed so much more alive yet so much more careless when compared to the non-magical folk beyond the barrier. It was a quality that Elliott barely had a moment to upon before his father snapped him back into the present.

"Listen here, Elliott," Mr. Ellwood began, taking a knee as he rested a hand upon his son's shoulder. "How do I put this… when I was your age, I was a seed just beginning to discover my roots. I cultivated myself as something hardy and homegrown—you know like a turnip or something, but one that was perfectly free to choose its garden. You've always been more of a vine, _parthenocissus tricuspidata_ perhaps. Not to say you're merely ornamental, you simply—"

"Dad, I have no idea what you are saying right now."

The train whistled a deafening interruption and both Elliott and Mr. Ellwood looked towards the Hogwarts Express as it prepared to depart.

"My point is," his father continued with a sigh, "Be sure to spread your cordons across the garden wall for maximum surface area, keep your chlorophyll sagacious, and don't fall prey to etiolation.

"Cordons? Etiolation? Dad, you know I don't understand your plant metaphors."

The train whistled once more. Mr. Ellwood looked back at Elliott, unable to communicate his meaning in a way that he hoped his son would understand. The train was about to leave.

I-I'm sorry," his father said, a strained look taking shape on his weathered face. "Ignore the garden. You've got a wall to climb, and I suppose it's time to leave. Understand that your mother and I love you and that we hope you enjoy yourself as much as we did during our time at Hogwarts."

"Thanks, dad," Elliott shrugged, turning away from Mr. Ellwood and towards the billowing locomotive. "I hope so too."

The boy left his father and boarded the train with haste. Elliott was feeling too anxious to give his father's words a second thought. The boy was ready to move on and embrace whatever lay before him.

The train rumbled to life as Elliott hauled his luggage down the hallway and adjusted his balance to the rocking motion of the carriage. He clutched Georgia's terrarium tightly. A red carpeted interior extended down the length of the car alongside rows of occupied compartments. Outside the windows, the landscape stretched and blurred as the train lurched forward. The station grew tiny as they sped faster and faster away from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Inside the train, there was an atmosphere of echoed discussion between the students moving in and out of rooms. Elliott felt a certain shyness walking amongst them.

Making his way down the corridor, the boy was quietly relieved when at last he came to an empty compartment. He threw his luggage atop the rack and nestled himself nearest the window. However, Elliott was not able to enjoy his private compartment for very long. Not moments later, there was a sharp knock on the door and in came the shaggy-haired boy from Flourish & Blotts.

"You again?" scoffed Augustus, entering the compartment and dragging a large trunk behind him. "Managing without our doting house elf, are we?"

Elliott didn't say anything as turned his head back towards the window.

"Surprised you were able to carry all that stuff here by yourself," the boy continued as he took a seat. "Looks a bit heavy for your twiggy arms."

Elliott furrowed his brow but kept his eyes locked on the passing scenery.

"Aw buck up, Shakes. No comeback? Not even a stutter?"

Elliott sighed. "Your name is Augustus, c-correct?"

"I prefer August," the boy said with a slight sneer.

"Well I prefer Elliott," said Elliott, giving him a hard look as his fingers clenched into fists.

"Yeah, but Shakes has a nice ring to it. And with the way your hands are quivering, I'm surprised you don't agree."

"Oh, why don't you just, j-just shut up," Elliott mumbled in defeat. He turned back towards the window in frustration as he felt his face flush red. Elliott was not used to having to stand up for himself like this, and he began praying that not everyone at Hogwarts was this difficult to talk to.

The scenery grew foggy as the train rumbled onward and the sky let loose a light shower of rain. Elliott took out a book to pass the time while a bored-looking August traced obscenities on the misting window. Just as the sounds of grumbling stomachs began to fill the compartment, there was a knock on the door. The two boys looked up hoping to see the food trolley. Instead, they found an older student already in her school robes.

"Which one of you is Elliott Ellwood?" she asked, looking back and forth between them. Elliott raised his hand meekly. "This is for you."

The girl tossed him a scroll of parchment, neatly tied with a violet ribbon, and then immediately sauntered back into the hall. Elliott unrolled the small note and silently read:

Elliott,

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely,

Professor H. E. F. Slughorn

"It's an invitation," said Elliott in confusion. August shrugged and returned his eyes towards the window, feigning disinterest. Elliott stood up and waited a moment, "So um, I guess I'll be back later." And on that note, he left the compartment.

The train was less busy than before, but there were still people bustling through the corridors. Tall, smug-looking students wearing badges patrolled with authoritative posture. Other students were clumped together, snickering and discreetly zapping one another with spells. One girl chased a stray toad fretfully down the corridor. Some of these students were already in their uniforms, but others remained in casual robes or muggle clothing. Elliott hoped this Professor Slughorn wouldn't give him a detention for still wearing a pair of trainers to his lunch. The thought of getting in trouble before arriving at school made Elliott even more nervous.

As he made his way through the carriages, the boy theorized why he could have possibly been called. He had never heard of this man and wondered why he of all people had been chosen to join. Elliott panicked as he considered the possibility that it would be him alone eating lunch with the teacher, fumbling with his words as he tried to sound intelligent. The boy imagined a tall, scholarly professor, legerdemain in both wand-wielding and conversation, towering over him with a disapproving frown. Elliott had painted quite the intimidating picture by the time he found Slughorn's compartment. He cautiously peeked through the window and was relieved to see five other students seated inside.

"Come in, m'boy, don't be shy," proclaimed the host as Elliott entered. "I'm Professor Slughorn."

He was nothing like what Elliott had imagined. The thickly-mustached man that was eagerly waving him inside looked like an elderly walrus stuffed inside a pastel waistcoat—its buttons threatening to pop as he leaned forward in his chair to gesture Elliott towards an open seat at the table.

"You must be Elliott Ellwood, if I'm not mistaken," said Slughorn with a warm smile. The boy nodded as he sat in a well-cushioned sofa and the professor's eyes swiveled around the room. "Now I believe you're a first year, correct? Well then, allow me to introduce you to everyone."

Elliott suppressed the urge to ask why he had been invited as the professor listed off the names, ages, and what he referred to as "reputable facts" about the other students seated.

"This here is Gretta McLean. She's what I'd call a musical protege and just about to begin her third year."

Gretta gave everyone a quick glance, as if also wondering why Elliott had been asked to join their little club.

"On this side we have Cyrus Shafiq, who's in his fifth year and also the sole heir to the great Shafiq family fortune."

The boy across from Elliott tapped his fingers with poorly disguised boredom and offered him a nod.

"Next to you is Olivette Williams, whom we suspect will be a big name in journalism in just a few years time—not to mention, she's quite the duellist from what I've heard…"

Olivette, who had been looking out the window, snapped her attention back to the conversation. "Hm? Oh, yes! Mhmm…" she added quickly.

"Right here we have Arthur Simeon," Slughorn continued, gesturing to the curly haired boy on Elliott's left, "whose father happens to be running for Minister of Magic in the upcoming election."

"Actually Professor," Arthur cut in, "my dad said he's planning on dropping from the race. He hasn't liked all the media attention on the family and such."

"Oh, I see—shame, shame…" said Slughorn, taking a moment to comb through his silvery mustache thoughtfully before he jumped to the next person, "Well anyway, on my right is Kenneth Griffith. He's entering his sixth year and I daresay he's the most talented chaser Hogwarts has seen since Ginny Weasley."

Kenneth didn't seem to hear his name spoken as he wolfed down a plate of turkey sandwiches.

"Now Kenneth was just describing to us his summer training regiment, but I think we'd all simply love to hear a bit about you, Elliott." As Professor Slughorn summoned a plate of muffins, the boy sank deep into his chair—the reason for his invitation having finally dawned on him. "Both of Elliott's parents, Emrick and Loretta Ellwood, are very well-known in the field of herbology and have done some groundbreaking research of late. In fact, just last year they discovered that by distilling Pomeranian coffee beans in liquid asbestos you can rid a person of narcolepsy."

While Elliott's face flushed in embarrassment, the other students in the compartment slouched in relative disinterest. As Shafiq stifled a yawn and Marissa went back to staring out the window, Professor Slughorn seemed mildly disappointed that none of them recognized the name. Elliott pretended to be intently interested in the turkey sandwiches that were neatly stacked on the plates before him.

"Well, I'm not at all ashamed to say that back in the day I taught those two everything they know about curative potion-making. Why I remember…"

For the remainder of the trip, Slughorn did most of the talking. He recounted teaching Elliott's mother and father and their supposed reliance on Slughorn's every word of advice. Elliott suspected that the professor couldn't actually remember a legitimate interaction with either of his parents while at Hogwarts and that he was merely filling in the blanks with vague stories of his mentorship.

"And I'm sure you plan to follow in their footsteps, of course. I suspect you inherited more than a fair share of their knowledge and talents." Slughorn prodded and poked at Elliott with questions about his aspirations at Hogwarts and his understanding of his parents' vocation.

After that the conversation shifted towards Olivette, who reluctantly elaborated on her impressive record in the dueling club and on being elected the youngest editor-in-chief of the _Hogwarts Herald_ in fifty-some years.

"I don't really know what to say about it," shrugged the fourth-year girl. Her smooth skin and plump face made her seem even younger than she was, and with the way she kept gazing out the window Olivette looked like a child moping on a rainy day. However, there was something ruthless buried in her watery eyes that was made apparent every time she caught Elliott looking.

"I must say though, that article you published last term really left the administration on shaky ground," Slughorn assured her. As he spoke, the rotund professor conjured another round of tea and crackers. "I haven't seen McGonagall under that much pressure in years. I wouldn't be surprised to see—my, this cheese is delicious—some changes in curriculum this year all thanks to you, particularly within the Divination department."

"About time," Cyrus chimed in, lazily stirring his tea with his finger.

"Hey, I'll have you know I liked Professor Trelawny's classes," Arthur called out, "And now thanks to little miss 'investigative journalist' over here, I'll probably be stuck switching into something useless like Ancient Runes."

Olivette didn't even have the chance to respond, before Gretta spoke up, "I actually enjoyed taking Ancient Runes. Then again, I suppose it requires a little more cerebral effort than you're used to giving."

"Excuse me? I've got more intellect in a single finger then you've got in your entire family."

"Your finger? Clearly you don't even know which part of your body you use to think."

"And you're really one to bring up family," Kenneth added, looking to Arthur. "Your dad couldn't even handle the stress of running for office."

Now it was Olivette's turn to speak. "Oh, give me a break. Let's not even pretend that a quaffle-headed oaf like you knows anything about wizarding politics. When was the last time you even read the news?"

The situation devolved from there. Everyone began hurling insults and arguing over one another while Professor Slughorn attempted to regain control of the room. The only exceptions were a thoroughly rattled Elliott and Cyrus, who appeared to have fallen asleep.

By the time the professor dismissed them from his compartment, everyone was in a sour mood. As Elliott wandered his way back to his own carriage, he was reminded of who was likely to still be there waiting for him. Between August and Professor Slughorn's collection of students, Elliott was beginning to find his peers much more abusive than he was expecting. Nobody seemed to like one another at Hogwarts and he hadn't even stepped off the train yet.

The scenery beyond the smudge-covered windows was darkening when Elliott returned to his compartment. He was pleased to find August passed out in a seat, having already changed into his school robes.

As he reached for his trunk overhead in order to do the same, Georgia greeted him with a hiss from inside her terrarium. She appeared to be in an equally unpleasant mood—but more so from the constant wobbling of the train as it trodded along the rickety tracks. Elliott smiled, poking his fingers inside to rub against her tepid scales.

"Don't worry, Georgia," he assured her. "We'll be on solid ground soon enough."


	6. Chapter 5 - The Hatstall

Chapter 5 - The Hatstall

By the time the Hogwarts Express screeched to a sleepy halt, the night had brought with it a chilly breeze. Elliott stretched and breathed in the fresh air as he stepped off the train, leaving his luggage to be delivered to the school. Students milled around the small, dark platform. With everyone now in uniform, the boy was finding it difficult to distinguish anyone from the sea of billowing cloaks and peaked hats. Just as Elliott was beginning to wonder where he should go, a booming voice broke out over the crowd.

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

A crowd of students parted around a hulking figure nearly twelve feet tall and just as wide. The man was holding a glowing lamp that looked more like a lit match held in his enormous hand. By the light it cast, Elliott could see that his aging face was covered by a mane of dark, wild hair and that he was wearing a moleskin overcoat the size of a tent. Its pockets jingled with the sounds of keys, trinkets, and who-knows-what as he lumbered his way down the platform towards Elliott.

"Firs' years, follow me!" the giant bellowed.

"What in the world is that thing?" asked August in awe just behind Elliott.

He wasn't the only one staring at the towering man before them. Whispers and mutterings passed between the collection of first years that had formed nearby.

"Name's Hagrid," the giant answered, ignoring the stares and hushed remarks. "I'll be leadin' you lot to the castle."

With a swish of his coat, the man turned his back to the first years and began leading them off the platform and down a winding path nearby. Hagrid's lamp hardly offered enough light to keep Elliott from tripping on tree roots in the darkness. Keeping a close eye on his clumsy feet, the boy trudged onward trying to keep up with his peers. Elliott didn't even notice that they had left the wooded trail until a steady wave of gasps and awestruck expressions passed over the crowd of first years. They were standing on the edge of a glassy black lake, shimmering with the reflection of stars and moonlight. The rain had left the beach damp and muddy, but as the clouds momentarily cleared they revealed the brilliant silhouette of a castle in the distance. Its dark shadow sat atop a rocky promontory and stretched monstrously into the night sky.

While Hagrid chuckled and observed each of their reactions, the sound of soft water washing against wood drew everyone's attention to a small fleet of rowboats slowly approaching the shore. The moment these empty boats broke ground against the dark beach, Hagrid shuffled groups of four passengers aboard each. Elliott scarcely had a moment to settle before the giant man pushed the heavy wooden frame of his boat back into the water with nothing more than a nudge. The air quickly grew colder upon the lake. With Hogwarts nearly within reach, the boy stretched himself past the bow of the boat as if leaning forward would get him there sooner.

"There aren't any paddles?" asked a girl seated beside Elliott. Shivering from the temperature and the anticipation of their arrival, he barely took note of her strange question. Save for the glint of her wire-framed glasses, the girl was difficult to see in the night with her dark complexion and black school uniform. Nevertheless, Elliott got the impression that she was also on the edge of her seat.

Again, the girl prodded, "Is someone leading them with magic? Or do the boats know where to go all by themselves?"

"Don't be an idiot," answered a chubby boy behind them. "Boats can't know nothing by themselves."

"Oi!" boomed Hagrid from nearby, drawing everyone's attention to a nearly capsizing rowboat that had fallen behind. "You best quit rockin' the boat, boy, or the giant squid'll pluck ya straight from yer seat."

In the moonlight, Elliott could just make out the shade of scarlet that overcame August's face as he sat back down in his boat. His companions simultaneously appeared relieved that someone had intervened and frightened by the prospect that there may be a giant squid swimming beneath them.

By the time they reached the far cliff face, it was impossible to view the castle in its enormity. Where the rocks met the lake, their tiny boats slid beneath a thick veil of ivy and entered a cave tunnel beneath the castle. Elliott felt disoriented by the dark—the lamplight of their boats spanning the limestone cavern walls like glow worms casting shadows. It wasn't until they broke the shoreline of a splintered underground harbor that Elliott remembered where he was, what was about to happen.

With a gruff order, Hagrid herded the first years out of their rowboats, up a damp set of stone stairs, and onto the foggy grounds of the castle yard. The students shivering in their cloaks huddled closer as they arrived on the steps of an ornate, oaken front door. Before Elliott had the chance to catch his breath, the castle doors opened to reveal large entrance hall, a grand staircase, and a very tiny wizard.

The first years let out a collective sigh as each one was struck by the warmth of the castle, banishing the chilly air of the lake from their bones.

"Ahem!" squeaked the alarmingly small man. Despite his height, the wizard stood authoritatively before the group of students nearly twice his size. "Welcome to Hogwarts! Thank you, Hagrid, I shall take them from here."

With a sentimental nod, the giant that had guided them across the lake bid them ado.

"My name is Professor Flitwick," the small wizard announced with a jovial twitch of his thin mustache. "In a few moments, you will be taken into the Great Hall where the Sorting ceremony will begin. This is traditionally how we begin our start-of-term banquet, with our esteemed Sorting Hat determining your prospective houses. Your house will serve as a form of family for the remainder of your time here at Hogwarts. They are with whom you will share your dormitories, take your classes, eat your meals, and spend your free time.

"Keep in mind that you are expected to uphold your House's legacy while completing your studies. You will share in one another's successes and failures, as good deeds will earn you house points and rule breaking will lose you house points. Over the long history of Hogwarts, these houses have competed for the House Cup awarded at the end of every school year.

"The four houses to which you will be divided are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each maintains its own reputable history and honored traditions. I greatly hope that each of you will find your place and make a name for yourself in whichever house you are sorted."

"Excuse me, Professor," spoke a confident voice in the crowd by Elliott. He turned to see the same girl with the glasses from his rowboat before. "Did you say Sorting _Hat_? How would a hat know which house to put us in?"

Professor Flitwick gave a high-pitched laugh. "Perhaps if you're lucky, it will recount the whole tale."

Elliott wasn't sure what to conclude from this information as the first years were lined up in two rows. The boy knew that they conducted some type of test to determine your Hogwarts house, but his parents had never mentioned anything about a story-telling hat.

Elliott shuffled into line between a tall blonde-haired boy and August before they were all marched through a hall and towards a pair of double doors. The sound of activity and voices echoed in the chamber, building the tension in Elliott's gut. As they burst into the expansive Great Hall, the bouncing conversations of the students inside were immediately replaced by the quiet gasps of the first years in line. With their heads on a swivel, they each drank in the sights, smells, and sounds of the dream-like scene before them.

An array of sparkling plates and silverware reflected the brilliant light being cast by thousands of candles suspended far above their heads. A magnificent enchantment across the ceiling made it appear as if the starry night sky had entered into the Great Hall and that outer space was within their reach. Elliott would have stared longer if it weren't for the other students—long rows of faces with rapt attention upon him and his fellow first years. The students sat at four distinct tables that must have stretched for nearly fifty meters. As the first years were led down the center aisle, Elliott noticed that a few of the faces he saw belonged to ghosts, whom must have joined the feast for the atmosphere if not the food.

At the head of the Great Hall, seated at another long table placed perpendicular to the students, were the teachers. Their dignified expressions didn't make Elliott feel any less nervous. The witch seated in the throne-like chair at the center looked more like an emerald viper than a Hogwarts professor.

Turning his attention to the smooth stone floor beneath him, Elliott picked this moment to become intently interested in his shoelaces. He tried to take a deep breath, but it only seemed to get caught in his throat. It was as if the air in his lungs was being sapped by the crowd around him. There were so many of them, and all the staring eyes only made it worse. They must be expecting something to go wrong, expecting him to fail—Elliott was sure of it. They were alienating him already, singling him out. The boy could feel it in his spine as sweat dripped down his neck. _I need to get out of here now. I need to_ — _is that...is someone singing?_

 _._

It's that time of the year again,

But for some it is the first.

For those new or who have forgotten

Let me explain in verse.

.

Elliott returned his gaze to the front of the Great Hall where a deeply weathered hat was sitting upon a four-legged stool. From a mouth-like tear by its brim, the hat appeared to be reciting a song.

.

There once were four great wizards:

Rowena, Helga, Salazar,

And Godric, whose head I called my home.

They were known wide and far.

Then, one day while they shared a pint,

An idea was brought forth:

A school for witches and wizards

That they would call Hogwarts.

"For the pure-blooded," said Slytherin.

"For the those of wit," said Ravenclaw.

"For the brave-hearted," said Gryffindor.

Hufflepuff asked, "Why not all?"

They divided into separate Houses

In which students would be placed.

Self-named for each of the founders,

Based on their style, traits, and taste.

Slytherin knew that the best students

Were those with strong ambition.

He picked those who showed promise,

And were cunning in addition.

Ravenclaw valued intellect,

Yet knew that there were many kinds.

Her students would be versatile

In the arts and science they applied.

Gryffindor liked the color red,

But more importantly those with nerve.

His House prized daring virtue

To ensure chivalry be preserved.

Hufflepuff sought those hardworking,

Those loyal and proud to suffer.

To fight for what you love is one thing,

But to defend what's not yours is another.

Now, this is the part of the story

In which I will play my part.

Place me atop your hairy heads

Where I'll read your brains and hearts.

Fear not, for I won't tickle,

Or speak your thoughts and shout.

I'll decide upon your Hogwarts House.

That's what the Sorting is all about.

.

Just as Elliott's anxiety was beginning to ease, the Great Hall erupted in applause. The raggedy hat addressed the uproar of claps and cheers with a proud smile before settling back into the stool. Elliott wrestled over whether he would draw more attention to himself by having his fate decided by a singing hat or by jumping out the nearest window. The latter sounded so tempting in the moment.

When the applause died down, Professor Flitwick stood before the group of new students with a lengthy roll of parchment.

"Now, I will begin calling out each of your names. When I do, I would ask that you please take a seat upon the stool and place the hat upon your head so that you may be sorted." Professor Flitwick looked up at all the first years as if expecting a verbal response. When none was given, the wizard simply began. "Bishop, Maurice!"

A wiry-haired boy shuffled forward towards the wooden stool. With shaking hands, he placed the oversized hat upon his head and took a seat. Nothing at all happened for over a minute, but every person was waiting with baited breath for the first student to be sorted. Finally, with the same dusty voice, the hat shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

The table on the far right of the hall exploded with excitement as Maurice joined the Gryffindor table. A ruff-collared ghost flew and danced through the air in celebration.

"Blishwick, Ophelia!"

"SLYTHERIN!" shouted the hat, this time after only a brief moment. The ponytailed Ophelia, blushing furiously, scurried over to the cheering Slytherin table.

"Castle, Meredith!"

Meredith needed a little push from the crowd of first years to get moving. Even more so than the two students before her, she looked positively terrified to put on the Sorting Hat.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Delacruz, Mabel!"

At this point, the same girl with the glasses that had prodded Elliott about the unmanned rowboats and asked Professor Flitwick about the sorting process, boldly walked up towards the stool. Unlike any of the other students so far, she appeared to be brimming with confidence as the hat nestled upon her cloud of ebony hair.

"SLYTHERIN!" declared the hat after a minute or two of deliberation.

Mabel swung herself off the stool and proudly joined the riotous Slytherin table on the left side of the hall.

"Eichorst, Henry!"

 _Crap_ , Elliott thought, _they're already on 'E.' I'm going to be called any minute._ Elliott must have run through at least ten different scenarios for how his Sorting could go terribly wrong. Public humiliation was nearly guaranteed.

"Hey, Shakes," whispered August to his right, "You better not embarrass yourself or you'll make us all look bad."

"Shut your mouth," Elliott hissed back at him while August suppressed a laugh. Elliott started formulating an escape plan. If he could sneak out while all eyes were on another first year, he might be able to get sorted by the hat later—preferably without the entire school watching.

"Ellwood, Elliott!"

 _Too late!_ Elliott thought of every curse word he knew on his way up towards the wooden stool. His legs were wobbling so much that he was barely able to take a seat without falling over. Picking up the frayed edges of the battered, old hat, Elliott slowly drew it upon his head and allowed it to droop over his eyes. Even without his vision, he could feel the stares of every person in the room. Just the thought of it was making his stomach seize.

"Buck up, or you'll sweat straight through my seams," spoke a small, quiet voice in his ears.

"S-Sorry," Elliott whispered aloud.

"For what you lack in bravery, you more than make up for in ambition," the Sorting Hat continued. "Yes, I see a drive, a hunger."

The realization that the hat was poking through his thoughts was only making Elliott feel sicker. This was a living nightmare.

"To live up to your family's legacy, to make a name for yourself. You are certainly a child of purpose, a true Slytherin...or perhaps not. You've yet to see the meaning in either success or failure, it seems, because you are craving for something that neither can provide."

Elliott could hardly understand what it was telling him. His queasiness only continued to grow with each passing moment beneath the hat.

"You've sure got the brains, dear me, I can feel it now. There's a curiosity I haven't seen in quite some time. Why don't we put that mind of yours to good use, what do you say? Let it be...RAVENCLAW!"

Slipping the shabby Sorting Hat from his ears, Elliott barely had time to process its decision while the Ravenclaw table paraded and his bubbling stomach took control. Every face in the hall was locked to his as the floor sped up to meet his knees. With buzzing ears and burning throat, Elliott unloaded a puddle of vomit onto the floor of the Great Hall.

The cheering that had come with the hat's announcement quickly turned into sounds of laughter and disgust as Elliott wiped his mouth. He felt a pair of hands sweep him to his feet and away from the stool, while Professor Flitwick settled the crowd and cleaned the puke away with a wave of his wand. Elliott groaned an apology to the woman whisking him off the far end of the Great Hall.

"Fret not, child," assured the skinny, old witch, "this sort of thing happens all the time. Last year, I swear, we must have had three different first years faint while on that silly stool."

Elliott said nothing as he clutched his stomach and hid his face from the snickering students. The boy was living out his worst nightmare. As the Sorting Ceremony continued, Elliott stewed and allowed the school nurse, Madame Pomfrey, to fuss over him.

"There, there, swallow this and you'll feel like yourself in no time. No use taking you to the hospital wing. A stomach upset by nerves is easy enough to cure—be thankful it wasn't slugs."

Elliott drank the bitter tonic potion and nodded his thanks.

"Hopefully, we won't be seeing one another again any time soon," she continued, offering him a smile. "Now go join the others at your table and try to enjoy the feast."

At her prodding, Elliott turned and rushed off to find a seat as inconspicuously as he could. The Ravenclaw table was packed with students sharing whispers and craning their necks to see the Sorting. Elliott muttered a series of apologies as he squeezed himself into an empty space and buried his face in his cloak. This was perhaps the most embarrassing moment of his entire life. The only comparable event that came to mind was the first time he accompanied his mother to Gringotts and was so frightened by the goblins that he magically shattered their glass chandelier. Today may have taken the cake.

"Hey there, cheer up," said a quiet voice next to him. Elliott turned to find a well-groomed boy seated beside him. His uniform was adorned with a shiny silver badge by his chest, proudly displaying the letter P. "The name's Carter Beneke, and I can guarantee that this will all blow over by the end of the week."

"Yeah, right," Elliott replied, burying his head again.

The upperclassman shrugged. "Either way, you should be paying attention. It's not every day you get to see the Sorting."

Elliott sighed, but knew he was right. He had already missed plenty of his new classmates receive their houses. How would he ever make any friends if he didn't know who they were?

"Sigmundr, Simon!"

A small, pale-skinned boy approached the stool. By now, the collection of first years had been nearly depleted.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table next to theirs cheered for the new housemate.

"Thune, Wendelgard!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

This time it was Elliott's turn to celebrate. The boy was relieved to feel that the attention of the students had moved off of him, and he found it easier to cheer alongside them. They clapped and whistled as their most recent addition, a redheaded girl with long braids, joined the Ravenclaw table. It was only after their celebration died down that Elliott noticed August was the only first year left. He looked uncomfortable standing there all alone, but Elliott could tell he was far from puking his guts out.

"Wells, August!"

The shaggy-haired boy strutted up toward the Sorting Hat, placed it upon his head, and sat on the stool with a firm spirit. The crowd then waited, and waited. Minutes seemed to pass while August's expression faltered here and there. There was less determination behind his eyes as he appeared to do battle both with and against the hat. The more time ticked on, the more whispers began to grow. Elliott noticed that there was a growing excitement about the long wait. Even the teachers were sharing quick glances—Professor Flitwick needed to stifle a knowing chuckle. Mutterings of a "hatstall" swept through their table like a game of Whisper Down the Lane. Elliott finally plucked up the courage to turn back to Carter and ask what was going on.

"A hatstall occurs when the Sorting Hat can't decide where to place a student," he explained. "It has to deliberate for over five minutes before a student is considered one. I suppose it usually can't decide between two houses, but I've never actually seen one before. Sure, plenty of people get close, but a true hatstall only occurs once every fifty or so years."

Elliott was surprised to see that August was so difficult to place. Based on his experiences with the boy, he was nothing but a bully. However, as the five-minute mark passed, the mutterings turned to slow gasps that confirmed the status of hatstall.

Finally, after nearly six whole minutes, the hat spoke up and declared, "RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaw table erupted in celebration. The ecstatic whoops and cheers of students made it clear that winning the hatstall was quite the honor for their House. Elliott clapped alongside them but was privately shocked. He had always understood Ravenclaw to be the intellectual House for more academic or creative types. August, to his knowledge, seemed far from those qualifications.

As August removed the Sorting Hat and joined the Ravenclaw table as if nothing happened, it occurred to Elliott that this meant he was going to be stuck spending a lot more time with the other boy. It was unavoidable. They'd be sharing the same classes, eating at the same breakfast table, sleeping in the same dorm. Elliott quietly groaned.

At this moment, a hush fell over the room as the emerald-clad witch at the center of the High Table rose to her feet. Elliott suspected that this must be the Headmistress, Professor McGonagall. Clearing her throat, she drew the attention of the Great Hall.

"Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts! Let us take this moment to remember the importance of a new school year, a fresh opportunity to confront the failings of the past and brandish renewed determination for the future. Before we begin our delectable feast, I do have a few start-of-term announcements.

"First, let it be made clear that the forest beyond the Hogwarts grounds is forbidden to all students. That includes everyone from our dear first years to even you, Mr. Lozupone."

An upperclassman at the Gryffindor table sunk into his seat as his classmates gave him a few shoves and broke into fits of laughter.

"I would ask that you also please keep in mind that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes," McGonagall continued. "Furthermore, for those of you wishing to play Quidditch, please contact Madame Hooch by the second week of term."

"Does she really have to tell us all this crap now?" whispered August in his seat across from Elliott. "God, I'm fucking starving."

"Lastly, due to recent events, the Department of Magical Art & Culture will be utilizing Hogwarts as a space to keep and protect some of our country's most valuable works of wizarding art. Several hundred different pieces will be remaining in storage here over the course of the school year, while the National Gallery is renovated and fortified. I ask that each of you respect the integrity of these works as you would any guest at Hogwarts. Speaking of which, I would like to introduce Mr. Abram Pavlov."

A plain man in shabby robes that was seated at the far end of the High Table stood to give the students a small wave. Even from his position, Elliott could see dark circles under the man's eyes—they looked as if he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in weeks.

"Mr. Pavlov is a museum conservator who will be accompanying these pieces while they remain with us. It is his job to repair and prevent further damage to the art, and I trust that you will be respectful of his time and space during his stay this year."

With everything said and done, Professor McGonagall ended her speech and allowed the start-of-term feast to commence. In an instant, the gilded plates and platters resting upon the tables were filled with an vast array of delicious-looking food. Elliott was amazed. His meals at home paled in comparison. The boy recognized the familiar sight of roast potatoes, green beans, and steamed asparagus, but he had never seen so many different kinds of meat on one table. Elliott had always been obligated to abide by his parents' vegetarian diet, but with stacks roast beef, grilled chicken, pork chops, sausage, bacon, and steak, he couldn't think of a better opportunity to embrace some new eating habits.

The feast went by quickly. Elliott piled as much food into his stomach as he could, while the students ate and mingled around him. Eavesdropping on their conversations, Elliott took mental notes on all the first-year Ravenclaws sitting around him. How else was he supposed to become their friend if he didn't know everything there was to know about them beforehand?

A blonde girl named Elise Markward was bonding with a fellow muggleborn, Benjamin Ernst. A tall boy by the name of Lou was complaining about being sorted differently than his twin brother, Darius. A girl with short cropped hair named Harper McFusty was very loudly telling an upperclassman everything she knew about dragons. August, on the other hand, was surprisingly quiet. Despite his annoyance that the feast had been delayed by announcements, the other boy hadn't touched his plate of food at all. On Elliott's right, a girl who introduced herself as Wendy Thune was playing with her food—using a fork to space the gravy into funny symbols inside her mashed potatoes. Elliott wondered if Carter was right, if by the end of the week any of these people would remember him vomiting all over the floor of the Great Hall. It seemed unlikely.

At the end of the feast they were dismissed by the Headmistress and led to their new dormitories by Carter, who explained that he was a Ravenclaw prefect. The first year students were taken on a long and complicated route through the castle with the promise of warm beds beckoning them onward. To Elliott, it seemed as if they were walking in circles along cramped corridors, through secret passageways, and up venerable staircases hidden behind plastic beaded curtains. He could've sworn they must have passed by the shamrock-patterned tapestry at least three different times. The students were exhausted.

As they scaled a set of seemingly endless spiral stairs, Carter began to inform to the group of first year students about the Ravenclaw common room.

"In order to enter, you must answer a riddle. This is to keep non-Ravenclaw students and other miscreants from being able to enter."

Finally, after reaching the top of the intricately wound staircase, they stopped before an aged wooden door. As far as Elliott could tell there was no doorknob or keyhole to be found, just a bronze eagle-shaped knocker in the center. While the first years milled around uncertainly, Carter approached the door and gave it a steady knock. Suddenly, the bronze knocker was alive, wriggling around like a tethered bird. Then, the eagle opened its metallic beak and spoke in a soothing, musical voice, "I am a memory charm's worst nightmare. What am I?"

Their prefect stood and considered the riddle for a moment, and Elliott could see the brains of his fellow classmates kicking into gear. _A baby? A Remembrall?_ Elliott thought, _no it's got to be something more profound, like the passage of time or a super specific counter-spell._

"Oh, I know! I know!" Harper piped up from within the small crowd. "The answer is a baby—they're so young that they're bound to forget everything anyway."

"Acceptable," said the voice. Carter chuckled as the door slowly swung open.

 _You have got to be kidding me,_ Elliott rolled his eyes. If answers like that were enough to get through the door, it was a wonder they weren't broken into regularly.

He and the other students filed into the Ravenclaw common room and were pointed in the direction of the boys and girls dormitories. The common room itself was a large circular living space with a near life-sized statue of their house's founder, Rowena Ravenclaw. Her smooth marble features gave her a beautiful yet unnerving expression—there was an amused smile beneath her powerful eyes and a neatly carved circlet upon her head. The ceiling of the room reminded Elliott of the one he'd seen in the Great Hall, a beautiful starry night sky. However, rather than an enchantment, it appeared to be painted upon the dome as mural meant to complement the midnight-blue carpet below. The large arched windows were draped with blue and bronze silk curtains to match the remainder of the common room. Elliott could see there were chairs and couches, tables and desks, bookshelves and study nooks—it was starting to feel like home already.

As Elliott and his new classmates trudged up another spiral staircase to their dormitories, all of the events of the day seemed to come into perspective. So much had happened, and there was still so much to worry about. For now though, sleep was the boy's number one priority. The moment his head hit the pillow of his new four-poster bed, adorned with dark blue, velvet curtains, Elliott became lost in a sea of dreams.


End file.
